By A Spider's Thread

Chapter Twenty

By Monday morning Tess was on the road, her breasts safely stowed beneath her usual turtleneck and a perfectly acceptable cocktail dress parked in her closet-black, halter-necked, and sleeveless, showcasing the shoulders and deltoids instead of the pectorals. Meanwhile, Uncle Donald had spent the weekend pulling strings, old and frayed as they were. Tess was now on the visiting list for Boris Petrovich, a process that normally required weeks of back-and-forth with the Department of Corrections.

"Who else is on the list?" she asked her uncle's DOC contact, curious to see if Natalie had gone behind Mark Rubin's back and continued to visit her father all these years.

"His lawyer, his wife, and someone named Lana Wishnia."

"Really?"

"Yes, but she hasn't been to see him since he was moved to the Eastern Shore six months ago. Probably too far for her to go."

"I guess inmates learn who really cares about them when they end up on the Eastern Shore."

Petrovich had been transferred to Eastern Correctional Institution in Somerset County. It was a long trip, made longer by the lack of an interstate past Annapolis. And because it was an autumn weekday, as opposed to a summer weekend, Tess didn't even have the consolation of grabbing a barbecue sandwich or buying fresh produce from a roadside stand. Not that she had much appetite this morning. Her stomach had clutched while crossing the Chesapeake, but she reminded herself that neither the bridge, the bay, nor the islands it contained were the source of her troubles last spring, just the routes she had taken to find them.

The orange DOC jumpsuit is unkind to most Caucasian complexions, but Boris Petrovich looked particularly yellow, as if he had liver trouble. Uncle Donald's state contact said Petrovich had been transferred here after abusing the privileges granted those inmates in a special program for older prisoners at Jessup, which fit with what Tess knew about the man. His foxlike face even looked shifty, with its flat cheekbones and narrowed eyes. Most likely he had agreed to meet with Tess because he was curious to see how he might manipulate her toward some end, even if he hadn't figured out what that end might be.

"So my daughter has run away and my son-in-law suddenly wishes my help. Interesting."

"He doesn't want your help," Tess said. "He didn't even want me to meet with you, but I insisted. He said everything you say is a lie, so it's useless to speak to you."

"Well, not everything. What would be the point in that? If you always lie, it's the same as always telling the truth. You have to mix it up to be effective."

Although Petrovich was serving a twenty-year sentence for second-degree murder, he was not in a maximum-security cell block, and he was allowed to meet visitors in an open area, sitting across a table instead of on the other side of a glass. So he was able to lean forward and place a finger on Tess's nose, the way a man might playfully chide a curious child. She tried not to flinch, but it was hard for her to succumb to a stranger's touch, especially a man. Especially a man with this sour, tainted smell.

"You're not just a liar, you're a would-be blackmailer, too."

He wasn't an easy man to insult. "I didn't see it that way. All I was trying to do is make sure my daughter didn't forget me, that she put some money away for me when I get out of here. After all, she made this wonderful match because of me, right? You think she would be grateful. Right? Or at least willing to pay a finder's fee? Right?"

The question was mocking in a way that Tess couldn't quite analyze. The repeated "right"s suggested the opposite, that something was quite wrong.

"Do you want to tell me what it was that Natalie was so desperate to keep from her husband?"

"No."

"What if I offered to pay you? Put money in that account that means so much to you? Plus, my uncle has pull with the state. I might even be able to get you back to Jessup."

"No."

"No?"

He grinned at Tess's surprise, showing teeth as yellow as his skin. "Everyone thinks I'm so crooked. But I have ethics, too, you know. I can't sell you what you want to buy because I've already promised it to another buyer."

"Is it Natalie?" Tess asked, thinking of the flurry of withdrawals Natalie had made in the week before she left.

He shook his head, pleased with himself.

It was Tess's turn to score a point, however small. "Lana Wishnia?"

"You know Lana?"

"Oh, yes. I know she's on your visitors' list, and I've spoken to her at length."

"But not at such length that you found out what you want to know. Or maybe not at all. Maybe you lie, too, to get what you want?" The last was asked with admiration, as if Petrovich could not respect someone who told the truth all the time.

"Sometimes. Lying's the only way to level the playing field with liars. But I do know Lana, and I believe she's a link to Natalie's disappearance. Does she know Natalie's secret as well?"

"I'll tell you this much: The person who bought my silence did it on a promise. I haven't been paid yet. And if the money doesn't come soon, maybe I will put that information back on the market, and you and I could still make a deal."

"Does this have anything to do with the man you killed?"

"That one? No. Trust me on this, no one's ever missed that man, not even his own mother." This matched what Tess had been able to learn. Boris Petrovich's victim had apparently been an unsavory type, a small-time criminal who had quarreled with Petrovich.

"I can always go back to Lana, ask her what's going on."

"She's tough, tougher than any American girl. She won't answer your questions."

Tess had a moment of wanting to impress Petrovich with just how tough this particular American girl was. She couldn't show him her gun-the prison had been quite adamant about holding that for her-but she could yank up her pant leg and display the scar on her left knee, still purplish and a little swollen three months after she fell on that broken bottle, the night she was almost killed. She could tell him what she had found the will to do, when she had to choose between her life and someone else's, the reserves of strength and violence she had discovered in herself. The nightmarish memory had faded somewhat over the past three months, so it was now bearably surreal-a flash of silver finding its target, her victim almost robotic in his agony, like a machine run amok. But the image was never far away when she was angry or upset.

Instead of saying or doing any of these things, however,

Tess willed her adrenaline to ebb. Her instinct had always been to run straight at things, but her instincts were far from reliable. That, too, she had learned the hard way. She needed to be quiet, still, disengaged. Direct questions wouldn't work with Petrovich.

"Hey, do you miss the other men?"

"What other men?"

"The ones from the group."

"I wouldn't call them friends."

"Still, they're back in Jessup right, and now you're here. That's kind of a burn."

He shrugged, indifferent to the topic, seeing no profit in it and therefore no point. "Most of them are gone from Jessup anyway, their time served."

"Right. I hadn't considered that fact. After all, there were only five or six."

"Eight to begin with."

"Right, eight. And you're the only one still inside."

"Me and Yitzhak. The others are all long gone."

"Yes," Tess said. "The others. Remind me of their names. There was you, and Yitzhak, of course, and Abraham."

"Amos, you mean."

"Amos and… Andy?"

Petrovich scowled, furious that she had tricked him into yielding any information for free. "I won't tell you the others' names."

"I don't need you to. Someone-the DOC or the Associated-has to have a record because Mark Rubin and my Uncle Donald were put on a visitors' list, just as I was with you today. Or Mark will remember their names. It simply never occurred to him to connect anyone in the program to Natalie's disappearance-and it didn't occur to me until you said you had another buyer. Thanks a lot, Boris. You've been a huge help."

"You don't know anything. You haven't learned anything. You're on the wrong track."

Perhaps because he was frustrated and angry, Petrovich stood abruptly, and the guards stationed throughout the room took notice. Tess was reminded that the man before her had committed a crime of passion, killing another man in a quarrel. But she wasn't scared.

She wasn't scared. The realization was akin to noticing that a toothache had disappeared, or that one's head had finally cleared after a long, miserable cold. She stood, too, feeling as if she had reclaimed a piece of herself-the chunk of skin carved from her knee, the long braid sliced from the nape of her neck the same night. Her "noive," as the Cowardly Lion would have it. There was no reason to have recovered those things here, in the drab visiting room at ECI, yet she had. Seeing through Petrovich had reminded Tess how much of the world was run on bluff and bluster. She might not be as strong as everyone she met, or as fast, or even as smart. But she could bullshit with the best of them. Combine that quality with a license to carry, and a girl could more than get by in this life.

"It's been a pleasure not doing business with you, Mr. Petrovich."

"You know nothing," he called after her. But Tess knew enough.

Chapter Twenty-one

STEREOTYPES PERSIST FOR A REASON, TESS DECIDED ON her way back to Baltimore, and it wasn't wrong to rely on them when they were helpful. On her cell phone, she called the Associated, a nonprofit umbrella group of Jewish charities, assuming it was far more likely to keep complete, accessible records than the state Department of Corrections was. Perhaps this was unfair to state government workers, but her generalization paid off in this case. The names and addresses Tess wanted were arriving at her office via fax machine before she crossed the Bay Bridge.

Eight men had been given permission to participate in the prison outreach program when it started twelve years ago, and-give Boris credit for telling the truth here-he and Yitzhak were the only ones who were still guests of the state. Of the remaining six, four had Baltimore addresses, while one was in Grantsville, and the sixth, Nathaniel Rubenstein, had no address at all listed with parole and probation. Still, it was the Grantsville address for Amos Greif that puzzled Tess. The town in far-western Maryland was best known for its model Amish village and the blueberry pancakes at the local restaurant. It seemed a strange choice of residence for a Jewish ex-con who specialized in grand theft auto.

"Amos was from Cumberland," Mark Rubin said, studying the list. He had come straight to Tess's office from work, so he was wearing his usual dark suit, although the days continued almost Indian-summer warm. Tess recalled he had been wearing a crisp white shirt and khakis with a knife-sharp crease while hanging around the house Saturday night. She wondered if he even owned a pair of blue jeans. Was his formal dress the result of his religion or his work? Could God really care what anyone wore? Adam and Eve had started out naked.

"Cumberland, Grantsville, it's still more West Virginia than Maryland. And it's not a place you expect to find a Jewish car thief."

"Cumberland had a… I wouldn't say thriving, but important, close-knit Jewish community going back to the nineteenth century. The local department store, Rosenbaum Brothers, was the biggest store of its kind between Baltimore and Pittsburgh."

"You're kidding me."

"We didn't all live in crowded ghettos, Tess. The joke about Jews in small-town Maryland is that they settled wherever the mule died. Remember Louis Goldstein, the former comptroller? When Louis was born in Prince Frederick, the mohel had to travel to the bris by ferry from Baltimore."

"Point taken," she said, trying not to yawn. "You can find Jews anywhere in Maryland. In small towns and big cities. In prisons and the state's highest political office. Hey, thanks to Marvin Mandel, we know that Jews can achieve both in the same lifetime."

"Marvin was pardoned," Rubin said, a slight defensiveness creeping into his tone. "And he was no more a crook than the governor before him, that Greek Agnew."

"Well, maybe someone will get around to pardoning these gents one day, and then they, too, can find new careers as lobbyists and lawmakers. Meanwhile, I'm more curious to know if you think there's one man on this list that I should be focusing on for any reason."

Rubin perched on the corner of the office sofa that Esskay was willing to allot him. The dogs had begun to warm to him, a somewhat reliable assessment of a person's character. Of course Esskay was a biscuit slut, falling for anyone who gave her a treat, but even the more reserved Miata perked up when Rubin came around.

"Amos was an interesting case. He was born to Jewish parents but orphaned as a teenager and raised by a local farmer. No religious education whatsoever, but a real head for business. If he had applied his corporate model to more legal forms of revenue, he'd probably be running a Fortune 500 company today."

"You talked about business?"

Rubin shrugged. "It's a great commonality for men. That and baseball. Now, Larry Kirsch was a drug addict who ended up dealing. Another guy with a head for the wrong kind of business. Very shrewd, always working an angle. Mickey Harvey-that was a sad one. He was a civil engineer, rear-ended another car, killing a child in the backseat. He left the scene in a panic-he had been drinking at the baseball game-and the judge decided to make an example of him. Just a normal guy otherwise."

"A normal guy with a drinking problem." Despite her affection for a nice glass of wine and the occasional martini-or perhaps because of it-Tess was sanctimonious when it came to drinking and driving.

"Now who sounds all Old Testament?" Rubin's tone was light, almost teasing. "I felt bad for the guy. He wasn't a drunk, he probably wasn't even legally intoxicated when he had the accident. He drove an SUV, and the car he hit was one of those flimsy sedans with virtually no rear end. Change a single variable in the scenario-one less beer, a longer game, different vehicles, a different route home-and he may have gone the rest of his life without hurting anyone. Every time I saw Mickey Harvey, I was reminded how life can change in a single moment."

Rubin broke off, perhaps remembering how quickly his own life had changed because of variables that no one could identify.

"What about the others?" Tess pressed him, if only to distract him.

"They're less vivid to me. Scott Russell ran one of those fly-by-night home improvement companies, specialized in ripping off little old ladies. This generation's version of a tin man, a run-of-the-mill gonif. Danny Katzen was a burglar who beat up an old woman who had the bad luck to be at home when he broke in. An unrepentant thug, just a waste of space and protoplasm. I liked him the least."

"And Rubenstein?"

"Doesn't matter."

"How so?"

"He's in federal prison. That's why there's no address listed. He served a state sentence for receiving stolen goods, then ended up with federal time for a sophisticated fraud operation. Besides, although he signed up for the group, he never participated." Rubin allowed himself an exasperated sigh, shaking his head at the memory of Nathaniel Rubenstein. "A bright man, too. If only he had been a patient one."

"What does patience have to do with it?"

"He ran a small chain of clothing stores. It was a great idea, although a little ahead of its time. You know those Scandinavian stores that sell trendy clothing at low prices?"

Tess didn't, but nodded anyway, so Rubin would finish his story and get back to the subject at hand. The guy was clearly queer for the retail business in all its forms.

"Nat tried something similar fifteen years ago, but he was undercapitalized and he expanded too quickly. He took shortcuts, taking some shipments he knew were of dubious provenance. And when he had cash-flow problems, he used his access to credit records to scam people with bad credit. He'd tell them he could get them a card with a thousand dollars limit for a service fee of a hundred and fifty dollars. Then he mailed them an application and some coupons and pocketed the fee. That's how he ended up doing federal time."

"How do you know so much about him if he didn't participate in the group?"

"Baltimore's Jews live in a small village, especially those of us in the clothing business. There's lots of gossip we keep to ourselves, so people in the city at large won't cluck their tongues. It was shocking, seeing Nat go to prison."

"Did you know him before he went in?"

"After a fashion." Rubin gave her a lopsided smile. "The pun was unintended."

"Only it wasn't really a pun," Tess said.

"Excuse me?"

"It was a play on words, but it wasn't a pun, which involves changing a word in some way so it takes on a double meaning." It was fun, correcting Rubin for once. "You know, Mexican weather report-chili today-"

"Hot tamale. Groucho Marx." He moved his eyebrows up and down, wiggling an imaginary stogie. "I'm a huge fan. I tried to get Isaac to watch the films with me, but they didn't seem to resonate with him. He has trouble relating to black-and-white films. He asked me once if the world used to be black and white."

His voice caught then, as it always seemed to do when he spoke of his children.

"Anyway, this list gives me something concrete to do," Tess said. "Your father-in-law was clearly upset when I suggested that one of these men might be an important link."

A consistent man-the word "rigid" came to mind-Rubin had not yet asked Tess a single question about her interview with his father-in-law.

"So you'll find them, talk to them-and then what?"

"You always want to be told the future, but I won't pretend to know what I can't know." Tess hesitated, reluctant to put Rubin on the offensive. "The men on the list-do any of them resemble the man with Natalie in French Lick?"

The question clearly pained him. "Yes and no. Truth is, they all resemble one another. Except for Amos, who was huge. Not fat, just enormous, built on a different scale. The others are neither tall nor short, neither fat nor skinny, and they all had darkish hair. It's been almost ten years since I've seen them. Who knows what they look like now? Who knows what I looked like then?"

"Why did you stop volunteering in the prison anyway? I know you were on the outs with Boris, but what about the other men? Wasn't there a way you could have continued with them?"

"Natalie asked me to stop going. Once she was pregnant with Isaac, she was adamant that I must not visit the prison anymore. She said it worried her, that it was a dangerous place. Funny, she had been there all those times, as a beautiful young girl, and yet she worried about me. I have to admit, I was charmed. I was so young when my mother died. My father was wonderful, but he always treated me like a little man. No one had ever worried about me before."

Tess resisted the urge to raise her own eyebrows Groucho style, or wiggle her own cigar. When it came to Natalie, shrewd Mark Rubin was fatally thick.

Chapter Twenty-two

ISAAC WAS LYING IN THE TRUNK, THINKING ABOUT ANNE Frank. He had given up being Jonah. After all, Jonah got out of the whale after a little bit and went to Nineveh, but Isaac was still in the trunk. Anne Frank had to stay in the attic, day in and day out, hiding from Nazis. Isaac's teacher had told the class the story of the brave girl this past year, and Isaac had been quite impressed. He did not see how anyone could live under such circumstances, especially when there was no television and, even worse, no new books to read, just a book you were writing to yourself. Which seemed kind of boring, because you would always know what happened next.

But Anne, it occurred to him now, had it better than he did in some ways. Of course, she was up against the Nazis, and that was pretty bad, about as bad as things get. But she had an entire attic and her whole family around her. She had her journal, which became almost like a friend to her. Here in the trunk, Isaac couldn't even see, much less read or write. True, he was seldom in here more than twenty minutes or so, while Anne never got out of the attic. Lately, however, Zeke had begun to put him in the trunk more and more, for all sorts of infractions. That was Zeke's word, and it was new to Isaac. Infractions. He was still trying to figure out what it had to do with math. Maybe it meant Isaac misbehaved in parts, sort of like one-third or three-fourths.

Today, for example, the trouble began because Isaac had refused to eat anything at lunch. He wasn't being stubborn. He just wasn't hungry. His mother had nagged him to eat, which made him feel contrary and mean, and he had crossed his arms against his chest, refusing to take a single bite of anything. His mother had hissed at him, threatening one minute, pleading the next, almost in tears from frustration, and people began looking at them. That was the one thing Zeke would never tolerate-people looking.

So Zeke took Isaac outside to give him a lecture, but Isaac just stared at the sky, as if he were in a place far, far away, where Zeke's words couldn't be heard.

"Listen to me," Zeke had commanded, grabbing his arm, only to drop it when he noticed the two waitresses sharing a cigarette nearby. "Man, you are a stubborn little bas-pisher."

"I'm not the pisher," Isaac had said. "Penina is."

Zeke smiled, giving him credit for the joke. "Daisy," he corrected. "Your sister's Daisy now."

"She's Penina."

Zeke gave him his meanest look, which was pretty scary, but Isaac knew he wouldn't do anything as long as those girls were around. Isaac and Zeke sat next to each other on the curb, enjoying their dislike of each other, the freedom not to pretend. Of course, Isaac never pretended to like Zeke, but Zeke put on an act when Isaac's mom was around, ruffling his hair, giving him play punches on the arm that were just a little too hard.

"So," one smoking girl said to the other, "I love your earrings."

"These earrings?"

What other earrings would she be talking about, stupid? Isaac's father said Isaac would like girls one day, but he couldn't see it. These girls had big, fluffy heads of yellow hair, and their makeup was as bright and vivid as the kind of markings that Isaac had seen on people in National Geographic.

"Yeah. They're adorable. Where'd you get 'em?"

"At the flea market over on Wabash. The Sunday one? Guy wanted twenty dollars, but I jewed him down."

"Ex-cell-ent." The girls tossed down their cigarettes and ground them beneath their feet. One girl wore sensible flat shoes, but the other was tottering around in high heels that looked to be almost four inches tall. How could she walk in those? Isaac had tried on a pair of his mother's high heels once, just to see how she did it, but his father had said he really shouldn't do that.

"What did they mean?" he asked Zeke when the girls were gone.

"What?"

" 'Jewed him down.' Does that mean she made him a Jew?"

Zeke laughed, an unpleasant sound to Isaac's ears. Zeke laughed only when he was laughing at someone.

"It means she drove a hard bargain."

"I don't get it."

"Jews are known for being good businessmen, Isaac. Maybe a little too good. A lot of folks think Jews are cheats, who will do anything for a buck."

"But we're not."

"Some are. Enough to give Gentiles that impression." Zeke stared off into the distance, although there was nothing to see but highway and a large truck stop across the parking lot, a huge complex of silver and chrome where enormous trucks stood idling. "Your grandfather was like that."

"How do you know my grandfather? He died before I was born."

"Well, he was famous, right? Ran a big fur store, made a lot of money, married into even more. But no one in Baltimore who knew him ever said he made his money fair."

"My grandfather was not a cheat." Said with more conviction than he felt, because he had never known his Grandfa-ther Rubin. But his father was a good man, so his grandfather must be a good man, too.

"Suit yourself." Zeke's laugh this time was short and bitter, more like a cough.

"You said Baltimore."

"What?"

"You said no one in Baltimore said my grandfather made his money fair. Are you from there, too?"

"Let's go to that convenience store over there," Zeke said. "See what kind of newspapers they carry in this hick town."

The convenience store at the truck stop was grand, almost as big as a real store, with all sorts of unexpected merchandise-clothing, toys, cassette tapes, even a rack of paperback books. A neon sign pointed the way toward restrooms with showers, while another sign advertised something called a chapel.

"Why showers?" Isaac asked Zeke.

"For long-haul truckers, my man. They can get pretty smelly, driving all day and night. They come in here to wash up and pray."

"Is the chapel only for Christians?"

"Don't worry, Isaac. I'm sure all the Jewish truckers find a way to pray, too. Your dad prays, doesn't he? Even in the middle of making all his money, he finds time to pray, right?"

Isaac refused to answer that question, spinning the rack of books while Zeke waited in line to pay for his newspaper. They looked like adult books for the most part, but there was a copy of something called The Amber Spyglass. Isaac had seen older boys at school with this book. He picked it up and opened to a page. Although the type was really small, he could read most of the words. Tests at school said Isaac read at the sixth-grade level, even though he was only going into the fourth grade. He was filled with longing for this book, any book. If his mother were here, he would beg her to buy it for him. But he hated to ask Zeke for anything, and not just because Zeke almost always said no.

Back home he had a savings account and a bank shaped like an Orioles cap. He could easily buy this book for himself. Of course, if he were back home, he wouldn't have to. His father would buy it for him.

Sighing, he started to return The Amber Spyglass to the rack, then saw the store's security camera focused on him, beneath a sign that promised SHOPLIFTER WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW. He stared back into the camera's eye, then made a show of shoving the book down the front of his pants, smoothing his shirt over it.

"You ready to go, buckaroo?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

Isaac and Zeke were almost back to the side of the highway before a woman began shouting after him. "Sir? Sir?" Zeke didn't turn around right away. He never did if he could help it. "Sir-I think your little boy has something of ours."

The woman caught up with them, pink-cheeked and a little out of breath. "I'm sorry, but one of the girls thinks she saw your son put something under his shirt."

"He's not-" Zeke caught himself before he denied he was Isaac's father. "He's not a bad kid. I can't believe he would do something like that."

Isaac shook his head. He didn't have much experience with breaking rules, but he was pretty sure a thief would pretend, at first, that he wasn't one. He clutched his middle, so the book wouldn't slip out.

"There-" The woman pointed to his stomach, and Zeke bent down, pulling the book from Isaac's grasp the way he might yank a hair from his head, hard and fast.

"I'm so sorry, ma'am. I apologize for… my son."

Isaac's cheeks burned, and he wanted to scream, He's not my father. But he didn't want to distract the woman from calling the police, or have Zeke call him a liar.

"It happens," she said. "Not so much with the books, though."

"Are you going to persecute me?" Isaac asked.

"Perse-Oh, prosecute. I don't think that's necessary. Next time, though, you should ask your daddy if you want something, or save your money so you can buy it yourself."

"The sign said you always"-he paused, making sure to get the word right this time-"prosecute."

"That's for grown-ups," she said, winking at Zeke. Women were always winking at Zeke when Isaac's mom wasn't around. Winking or patting their hair. "Little boys get second chances."

"Yes they do," Zeke said, placing a hand on Isaac's shoulder and squeezing hard enough to make him squirm. "Sometimes."

They returned to the car, and Zeke said Isaac had to ride in the trunk for the next hour, maybe the foreseeable future, a phrase that seemed weird to Isaac. How much of the future could anyone see? Isaac's mother started to argue, but Zeke told her what Isaac had done, how he had tried to attract attention, perhaps even the police. "If you show that you can be trusted, you'll get your car privileges back, buckaroo."

So he was in the dark again. For the foreseeable future. He almost wished he hadn't gotten caught, given that his plan hadn't worked. If the woman wasn't going to call the police, he might as well have gotten away with stealing and had a new book to read. It was so unfair. When people made promises on signs, they should keep them. For some reason this made Isaac think of the time he was driving somewhere with his father and they saw a huge sign that said JESUS SAVES. And his father had pointed to it and said, "But Moses invests." He had laughed, and Isaac had laughed, too, once his father explained it.

He moved his hands along the trunk's lid above him, then felt along the sides. It was such a crummy old car that parts were always falling off. The spotty holes in the fenders, like little bits of lace, let air in, but also fumes. Did his mother realize what those fumes could do? The carpeted bit beneath his blanket was almost completely gone, and you could see through to the rear lights, which rattled, loose in their casings. Bored, Isaac placed a hand where he thought the lights might be and began to poke around, just to see what might happen.